Young Immortals

Eighteen: The Ball (2)

"Say that word again in my halls, and the second swing will not miss," Eldor says, breathing hard. "You can keep either your tongue or throat. I'll even grant you the pleasure of deciding which." 

He jerks his sword from the floor, and Devlin removes his boot from Van Rike's chest. It might have been a nice tale of brotherly affection had the story ended there, but the fae are anything but prudent. While the brothers leave Van Rike, the crowd doesn't. 

The second the brothers leave the circle, the dance line breaks, and the fae rush the fallen knight. First a group of nobles cut chunks of his clothes and hair, then some ladies paint his face to resemble theirs and pass him off to the elders, who enchant Van Rike to dance for the children. They giggle and shriek as his bruised and battered body jerks around the dance floor like a puppet. His face is stretched in a wide, toothy smile while his eyes regard them with terror.

"Wow ... " Thomas says, his face white and drawn as he takes in the unfolding scene. "It hasn't even been five minutes. We haven't even fixed dinner plates."

I glance at him from the corner of my eye, holding my tongue against what I really want to say. You expect a normal party from the fae? Good luck.

Suddenly, an elderly elf stands. He rapidly shakes his head, his eyes pinned on the nearest exit. "I must leave."

"You cannot," Finnochi says flatly, unmoved by the table's reactions. 

Some RAs are grim and stone-like, as if they had known exactly what to expect from the fae, but most look exactly how I felt during my first week as a copper, their faces painted with various shades of shock and horror. 

"You must do what you came for first. Pay your respects to the royal family and wish his and her royal highness a happy coronation."

While the RAs do as they are asked, I stay at the table with Finnochi. I don't want to run into Silas. I know there is no possibility he will make good on his threats, but his talk of golden roses in the gardens has made me paranoid enough to keep my distance. A copper passes by, and without thinking, I snag a goblet off their platter. Before I can drink, Finnochi snatches my wrist.

"That's fae wine," he says, releasing me. "I suggest avoiding it, unless you want to spend the rest of the evening rolling around the floor, traded from partner to partner."

Instantly, I put it down. I am a little horrified at my sloppiness – just one sip away from putting myself in a terrible position.

"Before I drank from The Goblet, I thought it was just another one of the fae's eccentricities," Finnochi muses. "I didn't realize the years would dull my senses, until each pleasure was more fleeting than the last. By the second century, wine tasted like flavored water, and by the third, nothing at all. To feel anything, I must overdose myself into oblivion."

I turn to him with a start. Aerwyna had never made such complaints to me, but I suppose it's different, being born fae instead of turned. "Do you truly walk around feeling nothing?"

"Such is the nature of the fae. It's almost impossible for anything to excite us, but when we do find that special something, it's even harder to let it go. We use the object of our fixation until we squeeze it dry of all interest or break it, whichever comes first."

Someone watches me over Finnochi's shoulder. I turn and feel my posture go rigid. Silas catches my eye from across the chamber and nods at the door. He's being serious for once; this must be about his father's curse. 

As I follow Silas out of the ball, keeping a healthy distance to prevent any rumors of us leaving together, I glance back at the table. Finnochi drinks from my abandoned wine goblet, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Silas takes me to the gardens. As we walk through the maze of rose bushes, the moon hangs brightly over the treetops' shoulders. Only a fraction is missing, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the ugly sight. 

When tomorrow comes, it will be time to transcribe whatever inscription laid behind the second door.

"Sleep well tonight," Silas says, following the direction of my stare. "The second door won't be fun like the first."

"You know what it contains?"

"I have a vague idea. Back when he still possessed some clarity, my father gave me a warning for each door. Don't talk to the spirits, don't kill the siren, and don't enter with any fewer than six."

When he is done talking, my glare is darker than the starry night above. The blood thirst of sirens is well documented across the realm – in scale and sadism. I should have just let him turn my sketchbook in. At least the Green Court would give me a clean death.

"If it's any consolation," he says with a wicked glint in his eye. "All mortals die. You would have gone anyway, sooner or later."

My mouth thins. "And yet, somehow I never had this problem, until I met you."

"Yes you have. You mortals teeter on the constant verge between life and death. All it takes is one misstep, and your life is snuffed in an instant. I could do it right here." 

He sets a finger on my chin, tilting my neck up to the moonlight. My bones and tendons make visible outlines against my skin. Next to his hand, they look brittle as sticks, ready to snap at a breath of wind. 

He examines the blood pumping under his fingertips with open curiosity, that strange fascination he has with humans once again rearing its head. "One twist of my wrist, and you will never open your eyes again."

I pull my chin away, unimpressed. "Anyone would die if you snapped their neck. Even a fae."

We turn the corner to a new section of the maze, and the rose bushes give way to the waterfall, its silver curtains dividing a stream and a cove. The cove is dark, but not dark enough that I miss glimpses of sliding flesh between gaps of water as two bodies become one. I vaguely recognize the female from the ball, but I know the male instantly. 

Prince Devlin.

It is a well known fact that Prince Devlin only has dalliances with highborn fae, but somehow, sometime between today and yesterday, he has graduated from never so much as glancing in a mortal's direction to fucking one behind a waterfall. For a moment, I muse the danger of good music and strong wine, and then I remember the ball's secondary purpose, in addition to celebrating the rise of a new king. 

A breeding initiative.

For several paces, I walk back to the palace in silence, avoiding eye contact with Silas. While fae custom revels in the delights of flesh, I doubt such policies apply to one's brother. 

"Anyway," I say, rubbing my temple. "What were we speaking of?"

"I don't know. I'm a little distracted, aren't you?"

"Yes, I suppose congratulations are due, on behalf of your impending niece. That is most exciting."

"You are remarkably cavalier," he says.

"Sorry?" I say, wondering how my delivery became our most pressing concern. "Um, my most heart-filled, loving congratulations, your highness."

He stares at me for a beat longer, incredulous, and then his meaning finally registers.

"Oh, fear not," I say, pressing my hand over my heart. "I never wanted your brother in any romantic sense."

"How could I harbor such foolish notions? You only filled a sketchbook cover to cover with his face."

"As a muse." To be fair, Silas is right not to trust me around his brother. I have worse inhibition than a moth drawn to light. Had Devlin still sparked any inspiration, I would have caved a hundred times by now. "Luckily, I have not felt that sort of temptation in sometime and never will again."

"Is that something humans control? Turn their feelings off the second they lack convenience?"

"Like a switch. I look at a male and feel no more than looking at a dead toad." I stretch out my arms, grinning proudly. "Take my irons and charms. I'll say it again, word for word, under any guise you want."

Silas pushes my arms down, muttering under his breath. 

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